An Actual Uncommitted Voter; Mooner Match Makes A Cougar


So. I’ve been busy grading the driveway and small front yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe getting things ready for gravel, Xeriscaping and a new set of front steps. I met two men, brothers, when I first got here and they have been helping me with all of my remodeling endeavors.

As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the knowledge to understand the hows and whereofs to perform most any job around the house. Likewise, as a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the ability to fuck any job all the way to Hell, and back.

Take, for instance, using a pick ax. A simple task, pick axing—grasp ax near top end and middle, raise ax over head and apply downward force to direct pointy end at soil area desired to be loosened, lever ax handle to pry now-loosened material, raise ax to repeat.

The plumber finally finished repairs to my main water supply just before dinner last night. We had the remaining chicken and carrot soup that I made Sunday with the fresh, local produce I got from over to the Farmer’s Market down to the Rail Yard. Carrots and kale and onions and a big chicken.

This one vendor had a huge basket of various carrots—yellow, golden and purple—none of which looked like your typical chain grocery produce. The purple carrot I bought grew to look like that Wookie character from Star Wars. When I got my bag of stuff back to the casita, the dogs and I had a blast making jokes about the appearances of the various produce.

“That gold carrot looks like a giant double dog pecker,” Squirt laughed out. “How about you give us a few minutes alone. I’ve been feeling a little tense lately.”

I love that adorable little lump of brown fur and keen humors.

Which reminds me. I met an uncommitted voter yesterday. I’m not speaking about one of those assholes who say they’re uncommitted to get attention, I mean I met a woman who truly still has mixed feelings between Obama and Romney.

I went over to the Ace Hardware store to get some stucco patch to repair a couple nicks I axed into the side of the house. Adrian—he’s the older of the two brothers previously mentioned and now almost a part of my family—is a greatly-skilled stucco repair artist. I parked my car next to a several years old Honda of pristine condition and wearing a bumper sticker plastered to it’s back window that said, “God didn’t teach me to hate.”

“God didn’t teach me to hate?” I said to myself, and I guess aloud, as I stood hands-on-hips to read the sticker several times over. “Whatinthefuck can that mean?” I said to myself, and again, I guess aloud.

“It isn’t polite to curse, young man, and it means precisely what it says.”

My chastiser was a pixie in gray body stockings, fur-topped leather boots, a full head of perfect white hair and an angelic face crowned with half a tube of ruby red lipstick. “I’m a cranky old woman, buster, and I don’t like men to curse around me. It’s disrespectful.”

“You’re right, Ma’am, and I truly apologize for the foulness of my words. But your bumper sticker has me flummoxed. What does it actually mean?”

“Well, in context, it means I’m troubled by the current political climate where it seems America is a two-faced country with the right hating the left. I hear all this religious talk from both sides filled with hateful words. I want it to stop,” she said with a calm that defied the fury I saw in her eyes.

As I was wearing a dusty “Fuck Mitt Romney” tee shirt, dirty jeans and muddy work boots she seemed to figure me out quickly. “So you are an Obama supporter. Why?”

Huh? “Well,” I started, “I guess we can start from the simple fact that Mitt Romney is a lying, sniveling shithead—er, ah, I mean he lies just for sport—and then finish with his political positions.”

I then enumerated my thoughts on social services, women’s rights and the rest for maybe thirty minutes.

“Interesting,” she told me. “I’m Catholic and I’m torn. My church is demanding I vote Republican for no more reason than the abortion issue and my heart tells me that’s not reason enough to vote against self interest. How about we discuss this again sometime when you aren’t so filthy-dirty. You look like you’d clean up nicely.”

I’ve never dated an older woman before and an older Catholic woman at that. I’m thinking I’ll take her up to Chimayo’ to this nifty restaurant up there. Maybe Ralph and the girls will be back from whereverinhell they are by Friday night and we can make it a group date. New Mexico isn’t a swing state but maybe we can swing Lucille’s vote the right direction for practice.

I was wondering if Lucille’s rug matches her white curtains. I wonder if Catholic ladies practice body hair controls. I wonder if it’s appropriate to take your straight razor and edible shave cream on a first Catholic date.

Adrian is Catholic, maybe he can give me some pointers. Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “An Actual Uncommitted Voter; Mooner Match Makes A Cougar”

  1. bj says:

    That’s JUST what you need, there to the Enchanted Mountains … a Cougar …. to go along with the rest of yer menagerie …s’pecially one named Lucille (, “you Motherhead … (C’mon safety pin!)”.
    I think I read somewhere that Emily Post said it is “Quite Appropriate To Take A Weed Whacker To a Picnic … If The Brush Needs Clearing” …. Or Was That A Quote From Chimpy, The Imbecile President, During One Of His Many “Get Aways” To Clear Brush On Rancho Del Dumbass? Either way …. If It Ain’t Already …..scrape that monkey ’til it’s PANK!
    I’m beginning to werry more about the tardiness of Ralph and the Ladies …. than I do about yer Ace Hardware bill ……. You musta gave ’em plenty of CASH for their excursion into the wilds ……

  2. Squatlo says:

    First of all (always a good place to start), complements to BJ for finding the finest “Lucille” clip in filmdom.

    But before you go weed-whackin’ away maybe you need to check your toolbelt at the door. If you’re not any better with a straight razor than you are with a pick axe, the “nick” you leave won’t be on stucco… and while she might not tolerate a cursin’ man, she might have no problem with a castrated one.

    Just sayin’…

  3. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Beej. OK, first, thanks for the reminder of just how sexy a fully clothed woman can be. I remember needing to take ten with my Ivory soap bar over that car wash scene. But don’t worry about the Tavelling Poontang Tour Bus–AMX Gold and a Hummer trunk full of Carta Blanca beer goes a long way.

    Squat. Have you ever listened closely to the sound of a straight razor as it’s slowly pulled accross tender, bristle-covered skin? I like to rub the excess shave cream away with my thumb, a potentially powerful physics lesson on inertia.

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